Right. Apron on, hair up, and kids bribed with snacks — let’s talk sourdough. Not the Instagram-perfect kind that takes seventeen hours, a monastery, and a degree in biochemistry. Just proper, home-baked, crunchy-on-the-outside, chewy-in-the-middle sourdough that smells so good it could make your postman weep.
This one’s my go-to. It fits around school runs, phone calls, and the mild chaos of running a business while pretending I’ve got my life together. You’ll need 500g strong white bread flour (13% protein or higher, the good stuff), 70g wholegrain bread flour, 60g rye flour, 400g lukewarm water, 100g active starter (bubbly, happy, and smelling faintly like apples and ambition), and 10g salt.
Start by mixing your flours in a big bowl. Add the water and starter, then mix until it’s a rough shaggy dough. No kneading, no faff, just make sure there’s no dry flour hiding at the bottom. Cover it with a damp tea towel and let it rest for half an hour. This is called autolyse, which is fancy baker-speak for “take a break and check your emails.”
After that, sprinkle in the salt and gently pinch and fold it in until it disappears. You’ll feel the dough coming alive, stretchy, smooth, and a bit feisty.
Over the next two to three hours, do four sets of stretch and folds every half an hour or so. Wet your hands, grab one edge of the dough, stretch it up and fold it over itself. Turn the bowl and repeat all the way round. Think of it like tucking a blanket round a baby — gently but firmly.
Then it’s time for lamination. Tip your dough onto a clean surface and stretch it gently into a big, thin rectangle, about the size of your chopping board. Fold it up like a letter, top to middle, bottom to top, then side to side. It feels wrong, but it builds strength and gives you that glorious open crumb later. Pop it back in the bowl.
Now cover your dough and let it proof at around 25°C for about six hours. I stick mine in the oven with just the light on, warm, safe, and away from curious little hands.
You’ll know it’s ready when it’s doubled in size, the surface looks smooth and slightly domed, and it jiggles proudly when you give it a nudge. Poke it — it should spring back slowly, leaving a small dent. It should smell mildly tangy, not like vinegar or despair.
Lightly flour your worktop, tip out your dough (it should wobble like it knows it’s good), and shape it into a rough ball. Let it rest ten minutes. Then shape it properly — pull it gently toward you, tucking the edge underneath to create surface tension. Turn and repeat until it’s tight and round, like a smug little belly. Pop it seam-side up into a floured banneton or a bowl lined with a floured tea towel. Cover and chill overnight for that deep, sour flavour.
In the morning, preheat your oven to 250°C with your Dutch oven or baking pot inside. Once it’s hot, tip your dough onto parchment, score it with a razor or sharp knife, and carefully lower it in. Bake covered for twenty minutes.
Then uncover it and turn the oven down to 190°C for the final 25 to 30 minutes. That way the crust stays crisp but not concrete, because no one wants to crack a tooth just for the sake of artisan bread.
Cool on a rack for at least an hour before you even think about cutting. I know it’s torture, but it’s worth it.
And there you go — a loaf that says, yes, I run a business, raise kids, and somehow bake bread that could win awards. If you give it a go, tag @ChurchFarmVilla, because if I’m up at midnight with flour in my hair and spreadsheets on my screen, I at least deserve to see your crumb shot.
